


if you've got it

by RowboatCop



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Awkward Flirting, Coulson struggling with the name change, Coulson wearing progressively less clothing, Coulson's ridiculous crush on Skye, Exhibitionism, F/M, Flirting, Mutual Masturbation, Sex on a Car, Vaginal Fingering, Washing a car, coulson has a hot body, flaunting of hot bodies, inevitable sexual combustion is inevitable, skye/daisy also has a hot body
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-30
Updated: 2015-09-30
Packaged: 2018-04-24 02:11:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4901548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RowboatCop/pseuds/RowboatCop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Coulson flaunts it. (So does Skye/Daisy.)</p>
<p>Flirting and awkwardness and Coulson in progressively less clothing, as he and Skye/Daisy solve the stalemate of who's going to come on to whom.</p>
            </blockquote>





	if you've got it

**Author's Note:**

  * For [zauberer_sirin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zauberer_sirin/gifts), [Skyepilot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skyepilot/gifts), [notcaycepollard](https://archiveofourown.org/users/notcaycepollard/gifts).



 

1.

The first time he notices, they’re in his office looking at plans for the Caterpillar Project, and he spreads the blueprints of the proposed mobile base out on his desk. 

“We can officially afford this?” 

Skye is looking at it upside down, but she knows he whole proposed structure by heart anyways.

“We can,” he agrees. “Thanks to Maria Hill and some of Hydra’s assets that we’ve liquidated…”

“SHIELD has resources again. Who knew?” 

He grins at her across his desk and looks down at the blueprints, at some of the very specific kinds of mobile containment she’s dreamed up. 

When he looks back up, her eyes are trained below his chin, down towards the deep open collar of his shirt. It’s startling, and he has the sudden urge to pull his collar closed. 

He doesn’t, just watches as her eyes slowly slide up to meet his. She looks surprised, almost, and he doesn’t know what to do with it, with her wide-eyed expression or the way her tongue trails across her lower lip.

“You’re not wearing a tie.” 

He nods once. 

“Any particular reason?” 

“No,” he admits. There’s no particular reason except that he can’t name a reason why he ever wore them, why he was ever worried about his suits. It’s certainly easier to leave them off.

She smiles, maybe embarrassed, and he looks back down at the blueprints, tries not to put a name on this moment because there’s no way,  _ no way _ , that she’s checking him out.

“It’s...not a bad look.” 

He touches the deepest part of the V at his collar, feels the chest hair that has poked out the top of his shirt. 

For a split second, he swears Skye blushes, and then she smiles at him and asks a real question about their mobile base, has to repeat it as he stares at her in shock.

He must be mistaken.

  
  


2.

They’re together on a mission, breaking into a former Hydra base, the first time he can’t deny it. It’s a high priority objective, something they do every time they find another Hydra location: loot it of whatever assets they can find — files, information, bank accounts, things they can sell — and then burn it to the ground, make sure it’s unusable by anyone affiliated with Hydra. 

Since he’s been trying out new hands, since he has his own minor version of superpowers now, he’s been itching for the chance to get back into field missions, so of course he jumped at this one — important enough to matter, but with little suspected danger. 

It’s also the first one he’s ever done with Skye, with just the two of them together — alone together — and he knows he’s not supposed to think about that  _ quite  _ so much.

He wonders if she thinks about it, if it has struck her that this is a first for them.

It goes smoothly enough, with no big surprises, a lot of potential new leads, and a few bank accounts they can empty; and then as they’re wrapping up, it happens.

“Coulson, I —”

She cuts herself off when she enters the room where he’s been working bent over a computer terminal. And he knows, he can feel it, that she’s staring at his ass.

His field suit is all black, tight and fitted — similar to hers — and he’d be lying if he said he doesn’t think his ass looks good in it. (His ass looks  _ great  _ in it, and he doesn’t brag, but he’s not going to be falsely modest, either. He’s worked hard for his ass, has spent more time in the gym these past months as he’s coming to grips with his new body.)

When he turns to meet her eyes, it takes her a second to draw her gaze up to meet his, and he’s not sure he’s ever seen her look so embarrassed. 

“Agent Johnson?” 

“ Sir,” she nods, and her embarrassment fades into a little smile, a perfect  _ Skye _ smile, and he wonders if he should be trying harder not to call her  _ Skye  _ in his head. “The main control room is secure.” 

“I’m done in here,” he agrees, and they turn to leave together. 

“I was hoping we’d see a little bit of action,” she admits as they leave the building and walk towards Lola, who is cloaked in the abandoned lot.

Coulson hits a button on the keys to turn off the cloaking, revealing the cherry red paint on Lola’s body and hardtop.

“You were hoping for something to go wrong?” 

“Well, it’s our first mission together. I guess I wanted it to be memorable.”

He laughs, tries not to think too hard about the warmth in his stomach that comes from knowing that she  _ has  _ thought about this, too. 

This first.

“We’ll have more.” 

“Yeah,” she agrees. “And we got to take Lola,” she adds as they stop behind the car. “That’s kind of memorable.” 

She brushes her fingers against the paintjob, and Coulson can’t quite pull his gaze away from the sight of her fingers smoothing over the shiny red finish. She’s so careful, especially since she’s wearing the metal gauntlets that help her with fine control, and then she pulls back like she’s caught herself doing something questionable. 

There’s a glance at him, up through her eyelashes, and then she pulls off the gauntlets as he opens the trunk for her. Once she’s set them inside, she pulls off her utility belt, too, and her holster, but before he can shut them in the trunk, she stays his hand.

“I just want to get out of this,” she tells him, reaching for the zipper at the neck of her suit. 

He’d like to say that things don’t slip into slow motion as she lowers the zipper, but everything does; every inch of zipper is an eternity, even though it only reveals a strip of black cotton underneath.

It’s a horrible tease, the promise that she could easily be more naked but isn’t, something ridiculously erotic about it.

And then she slips the jacket of her arms, back arched to help the sleeves slide down her elbows.

He’s horrified to hear himself make some kind of longing  _ noise _ , a little whimper in the back of his throat, as she reveals her perfectly formed shoulders in a tank top. It’s not like he’s never seen her dressed like this, but something about the process, about the exposure of skin, does him in.

She’s looking at the ground, but he can see it, her little smirk at her feet. 

“ That’s a good idea,” he tries to cover his embarrassing  _ noise  _ by looking down and sliding down the zipper of his own tactical jacket. 

He’s wearing a regular black tshirt beneath, nothing particularly special, which is why he’s shocked to look up and see her staring at his biceps.

He tries not to flex, not to show off a little. 

He fails miserably, definitely flexes, definitely shows off. 

It might be more embarrassing than the noise. 

“Looking good, sir,” she teases him, and he self-consciously touches the vibranium band around at point where his prosthetic connects to the residual limb, the permanent part of the fixture. He forgets, sometimes, when Skye stands too close to him.

“Yeah,” he rolls his eyes at himself.

“Hey,” her hand lands on his forearm, his left one, the metal one. “I mean it.” 

He can’t feel it, but something about  _ seeing  _ her hand on it is...intense. All he can do for a minute is look at it — the sight of her touching him: soft on hard, flesh on metal — and force a dry swallow.

“ Not looking as good as you, though,” he finally manages as he wraps his right hand around her wrist and slides his palm up her arm, soft  _ bare  _ skin all the way up until he’s curving his fingers around her shoulder, thumb stretched out to touch her collarbone. 

And he’s never touched her like this, something that feels so  _ forward _ , so appreciative of her body in a way that isn’t safe at all. 

It doesn’t feel wrong, though, and he wonders at that, at the increasingly blurry space where he swears there used to be a line that he wouldn’t cross, a line that maybe doesn’t exist anymore.

She looks up at him, all earnestness, before her expression melts into a smile.

“Well, I’m a superhero now, didn’t you hear?” 

There was a news story last week about an anonymous superpowered woman who saved the day, and a few papers have been bandying about the name  _ Quake _ . 

“I suppose it’s only right that you look the part,” he agrees, and slides his thumb across the line of her clavicle, feeling out the shape under her skin. 

He watches carefully as he does it, watches for any sign that the touch is unwelcome. Instead, she leans into it and slides her own palm up from the metal to wrap around his bicep. He flexes under her touch, and he supposes he’s adjusted to it by now — this embarrassing  _ need  _ to impress her, to never be someone that she walks away from with disappointment.

“And what’s your excuse for hitting the gym so often lately?”

She squeezes his bicep, feels out the flexed muscle under her fingers, and he exhales too hard. His whole body buzzes, and everything just feels...possible. Possible in a way it never has. 

“Well, rumor has it my field partner is a superhero. I wouldn’t want to disappoint her.” 

Her eyes drift to his chin before taking a slow path down his body, and he can feel a flush crawl up his neck at her frankly admiring gaze. 

“You’ll do,” she decides, and it’s there again, the sense of possibility as she meets his eyes. And then she grins at him and pulls backwards, and he’s shocked to see that she’s managed to snake Lola’s keys while he was distracted. 

“Hey!”

“I’m driving,” she announces, throwing him a flirty wink, and he can’t even play at being angry or possessive about his car. 

He likes it when she drives.

And as they climb in and she starts up the engine, it’s still there — this sense of possibility.

  
  


3\. 

Coulson has never been in the habit of working out around people, and since he lost his arm he’s only been more careful with it. So the decision to walk down to the gym while he knows Sk-  _ she  _ is there, doing a routine that takes her from the bag to free weights and back to the bag, isn’t one he makes  _ lightly _ . 

Of course, he doesn’t think too hard about it, either, in case he talks himself out of it.

But he does it, he walks down in basketball shorts and a sleeveless tshirt that just covers his shoulders. It’s not like he directly thinks to himself that he wants her to see his arms — to see the biceps she ran her fingers over — but the thought is there. 

Of course it is.

When he walks into the room, she’s beating the bag into submission, wearing a smaller version of the old sleeveless SHIELD tshirt he has on. It’s not the sleekly feminine look of the tank she wears under her field uniform, less shape, but she makes it look sexy.

He can tell that she knows she’s being watched, can see the way she straightens up, gets her form just perfect, hits the bag somehow even harder. The bunch and stretch of her muscles is almost hypnotic, her competence and the power in her blows actually  _ arousing  _ on its own, and he doesn’t stop her or call her attention away.

“Sir,” she greets him without turning around, finally catching the bag, and he watches the way her shirt clings to the curve of her lower back, darker grey from sweat. 

“How’d you know it was me?” 

“Your vibrations,” she shrugs. 

“You can tell mine apart?” 

He wants to be flattered by that. 

“ Sort of. Mostly,” she turns to face him, “you’re the only one with a piece of you that  _ doesn’t  _ vibrate.” 

Coulson laughs and holds up his left hand, the prosthetic, and touches the vibranium piece. 

“Does it feel strange to you? To be near it?”

“Not so strange,” she shakes her head, like she’s trying to reassure him, and he doesn’t want her to worry about that.

“Sk—” He swallows back the name he’s known her as for two years. 

She smiles at his slip, friendly and only just a touch exasperated. 

“ It’s okay, Coulson. I  _ told  _ you it was okay.”

“I want to call you what you want to be called.” 

“And maybe I don’t have a problem being both.” 

It makes him smile, the idea that she’s big enough to carry two names. Or more. 

“It’s weird when you call me ‘Agent Johnson.’”

“Weird?” 

“Hmm,” she nods noncommittally. “You never called me Agent before, you know?” 

“Should I have?” 

“No,” she answers.

“Do you want…”

“It’s not a bad weird,” she clarifies. “Just...it’s different.” Her smile slips to a more serious expression, big brown eyes locked onto his. “You never call me Daisy, you know. And you stop yourself from saying Skye. So the only name you’ve called me for months —”

“Skye,” he sighs her name and lays a gentle hand — the flesh and blood one — on her bare arm. It hasn’t even occurred to him how it’s been weird, probably extra weird for her. “Daisy.” 

It makes her grin, a blushing kind of glow, and he should do better at this if it makes her look at him like that.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t even think.”

“What didn’t you think about?” 

“That I…” Coulson shakes his head, doesn’t know how to put it in words, what he didn’t think about. What he’s still, perhaps, not thinking about. “You’re more than just an Agent to me. More than an asset to SHIELD. You know that, right?” 

She rolls her eyes. 

“Yeah. I’ve gathered that much, Coulson.”

“Phil,” he...offers. 

Her eyes widen. 

“Phil,” she whispers his name like it’s a gift, like it’s something she never expected to have. 

But if he has to navigate the question of when to call her by a different name, something he should have been doing for all this time, she might as well do it with him.

“Daisy,” he tries hers again, watches the slow smile light up her face. 

“ So,  _ Phil _ ,” she grins around the sound, like it’s a privilege, and it almost hurts that it could mean so much to her to be allowed to say his name. “You need a spotter?” 

And he wanted her to see him, to watch him, he wanted to push this...but something about the question makes his stomach flip, and he’s too old for butterflies. 

“Yeah,” he agrees, a little breathless. 

They walk together to weight bench, and she stands back while he sets it up — her gaze frankly admiring, and he’s going to have to watch it, make sure he doesn’t hurt himself in a misguided attempt to impress her. 

“How does the prosthetic affect your lifting?” She asks him, only a slight uneasiness in her eyes giving away that she’s not entirely sure that this line of questioning is acceptable. 

Which it is, he really doesn’t mind. 

“It doesn’t,” he admits, squeezing his robotic fingers together. “I have a stronger grip and I can do more damage with a punch, but I’m limited by my own strength.” 

“Is that why you’ve been hitting the weights so hard?” 

She touches him, soft finger tracing down his bicep. 

“Partly,” he agrees, more than a little flustered from the feel of her fingers on his arm, for the second time.

“Lie down, Phil,” she directs him, and he swears her voice is huskier, darker; his brain takes a gutter dive, one that must be very very clear on his face. 

Skye just smiles, though, eyes twinkling like this is all very amusing, and he lies back on the bench and grips the bar over his head. Deep breath, and he raises up and starts his reps. 

It takes effort not to tilt his head back and look at her, to keep focus on his form and what he’s doing. But that’s how he’ll maybe manage impress her, after all, and it’s a bald-faced lie to pretend that that wasn’t his purpose in coming down here today.

He finishes the first set and she helps him guide the bar back into place. Slowly, he tips his head so he can see her standing over him, but he doesn’t look all the way up at her face, just up the line of her legs in her leggings, up the baggy cotton of her shirt. 

Coulson closes his eyes and looks up at the ceiling, quietly counting off thirty seconds. 

Like she’s anticipated him — and he wonders if she can feel it, something in his vibrations — she lays a hand on the bar as he lifts again, starts another set. 

And he’s focused on form, on getting everything exactly right, on showing her what he can do, though he doesn’t quite know what the next step after that is meant to be. He doesn’t have it in him to make a move on her, on Skye, on Daisy, on someone who is technically his subordinate. 

He’s not sure he’s an arrogant enough man to think that she’ll be enticed to make a move on him, though.

She makes  _ a noise  _ —  something appreciative and almost  _ sensual  _ sounding — and he can’t stop himself from tilting his head back, from looking up at her face. 

Her eyes are wandering his body almost  _ hungrily _ , and the butterflies turn into a heat that curls low in his belly. 

“ Looking good, sir,” she praises him as he sets the bar back in place, and he  _ whines _ , a helpless little needy sound against the rush of blood to his groin. 

He sits up too fast, suddenly uncomfortably aware of how much his boxers and loose shorts aren’t going to hide the effect she’s having on him. 

“Water?” He requests, not quite trusting himself to speak. 

“ Yeah,” she grins at him like she knows  _ exactly  _ what’s going on and turns to the back wall to retrieve her bottle. 

Their fingers brush when she passes it to him, flesh on flesh fingers, and he shivers at the contact, like his whole body is almost too attuned to her. If she can feel his vibrations, he wonders if she can feel this, can feel the difference in him. 

“Phil,” she whispers his name, calls his attention up so he’s holding her eye as he drinks. “I —” 

“ _ Hell _ o, didn’t expect to find you  _ both  _ here,” Hunter cuts her off. Coulson glances past Skye’s body, Daisy’s body, to see Hunter’s inquisitive face, then back up to where she frowns, like she’s pulling herself together — pasting on a bored expression — before she turns around. 

“Just spotting Coulson,” she says, like this is all nothing. 

“I’m sure you were,” Hunter laughs, and she responds by flicking a finger at him. Coulson lets out a guffaw when the clipboard Hunter had been carrying shakes and then clatters to the ground. 

“Oh sure, shoot the messenger,” he grumbles. “I just came to tell you Bobbi needs you, Daisy. Something about tweaking the gauntlets.” 

She nods once, then turns to Coulson. 

“You don’t need me?” 

He coughs at the turn of phrase, at how much yes, actually, he  _ needs _ her, but manages to shake his head in the negative. 

She holds his eye for a moment, a beat too long, and he feels his cheeks flush.

“I’ll spot him,” Hunter offers, but Coulson rises from the bench instead as Skye turns and walks out of the gym. 

  
  


4.

Lola still has on her hardtop — the only way to wash her, of course — and he pulls her out over the grate in the hangar area. It’s been awhile since he did this, and last time he was wearing actual clothes.

Last time, he hadn’t invited Skye, though.

He feels like a damn fool in his tightest jeans and sleeveless undershirt, the kind that covers almost none of his shoulders and leaves him feeling a lot more  _ exposed _ than he’s used to, and he wonders what the hell he’s playing at. 

The fact is that he’s not a young man anymore, and even if Skye — Daisy — has shown a little interest in looking at him recently, it’s foolish of him to seek out her attention like this. 

He’s pretty much convinced himself to at least go put on a real shirt when she walks into the hangar wearing short denim shorts and a white tank that looks a lot like his, thin enough to make it  _ really  _ obvious that she’s not wearing a bra. 

His mouth goes dry. 

“Ready to wash Lola, Phil?” 

She’s been doing that lately, calling him Phil. And she’s meant to — he told her she could — but it makes him want to do rash things when she says his name like that. 

Rash things that he probably shouldn’t do.

“Yeah,” he agrees. 

There are sponges and microfiber cloths, and of course he cares about getting Lola clean, but it’s in the air — they both know this isn’t really about Lola. 

Which somehow makes it incredibly awkward, awkward in a way things usually  _ aren’t  _ between them. 

He picks up the hose and wets down the car, fills two buckets as Daisy pours in the gentle liquid soap of choice, but he can’t bring himself to look at her. 

They start to wash Lola in silence, the tension between them palpable, but he can’t turn and look at her, not when he can see the shape of her breasts under her top. Not when he doesn’t trust himself not to push things, when she’s the one that needs to take this further. 

Taking this further, as it turns out, comes in the form of a wet sponge smacking him in the face. 

He gasps — actual shock — and ends up with a mouthful of slightly soapy water for it. 

Daisy almost collapses in laughter, bent forward on her knees as he spits. 

“Phil,” she giggles through his name. “I’m sorry...I…” 

He gets it — it broke the tension, after all. 

She doesn’t stop laughing, though. 

He hurls his own sponge at her just as she straightens up, so it hits her at the very top of her shirt’s neckline. When she pulls the sponge off, the material is stuck to her skin, droplets of water making the white shirt more transparent at the top inner curves of her breasts. 

She laughs harder.

It’s too distracting, though, because he doesn’t notice when she winds up and lobs the sponge back at him, doesn’t notice anything until the wet smack in the middle of his chest.

He can feel his shirt sticking to him, and some latent competitive urge surfaces as Daisy laughs at him. They dive for the hose at the same time, but she beats him by a half a second — enough to drench him before he’s even realized he’s lost. 

“Catch me,” Daisy taunts him and darts behind Lola, hose in hand. 

He tries, at least, circling around the car after her, reaching desperately for the hose, but he doesn’t catch her until she pauses in front of Lola’s hood to spray him again, catching him in the face and then the chest, so he can feel his shirt totally plastered to his skin. 

And then she stares at him, long enough for him to catch her, his fingers circling around her upper arms so that she drops the hose. 

Coulson doesn’t know what he means to do with her, now that he’s caught her, but she solves that problem by pressing herself up against his chest. He almost expects her to kiss him, but she doesn’t, just presses her dry chest against his wet one for a moment and then backs away a step. 

“We’re even now,” she suggests, and he lets his gaze drift down to where her breasts are almost totally visible under the transparent white fabric of her tank top, nipples hard and visibly pinkish tan.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “Sk-” He swallows. “Daisy.” 

“Phil,” she grins at him, as though waiting for him to make a move, and it’s a standoff for a moment, a question of who’s going to be the one to break the stalemate between them. 

Of course it’s her.

She runs her hands down his arms, slipping against wet skin, until her fingers circle his wrists — the flesh one and the metal one — and she pushes him backwards onto Lola’s hood before climbing on top so she straddles him. 

“You’ve been teasing me,” she suggests. 

He licks his lips. 

“I just wanted to know if —” 

She doesn’t let him finish, instead kisses him, and all Coulson can do is open himself up underneath her.

It’s frantic for a moment — fast and desperate, tongues twisting together, and he can’t believe they waited so long to do this, this thing that they both want.

Daisy pulls back, lips dark and full as she looks down at him. 

“You’re a tease, Phil,” she chides him. 

“And you’re not?” 

His eyes wander down her chest, down to her braless breasts that hover over him, to the clear outlines of her nipples under white cotton.

“No, I definitely am,” she admits. 

Coulson laughs, almost shocked at her openness, and runs a hand up her back to draw her down — until her breasts hover just over his mouth.

“You definitely are.” 

All it takes is a gentle press down on her back — a suggestion more than a push with his robot hand — and Skye leans over him so her nipple brushes his lower lip and he sucks hard against the cotton-covered skin. 

“Phil,” she moans his name as he sucks on her, wet cotton and chilled skin that warms against his tongue.

"Daisy," he sighs, liking the sound of it at a moment like this.

"Please," she murmurs against the top of his head, pressing her lips there, and he can feel the tremors in her whole body, feel how badly she needs more.

 

He runs his right hand down her body, and thumbs open her shorts so he can snake his fingers between her legs. The wet heat that greets him makes him moan into her breast, and she adjusts herself on top of him — opening up so he can easily curl two fingers inside of her as the heel of his hand presses against her clit. 

She grinds down against his hand, doing almost more of the work than he does, as he sucks greedily at her other nipple until she’s shaking around his fingers. 

It’s a silent orgasm, all quiet release of tension and with her mouth open and her head thrown back.

“Coulson,” she whispers his name as she comes down, collapsed against him, and he likes this name, too, it turns out. 

“Bedroom?” He suggests as he pulls his hand back, getting him a near-frantic nod in return. 

“Yeah.” 

He can’t seem to let her go, though, can’t seem to pull his mouth off of her, chases after her nipple when she moves to sit up like she might disappear if he stops touching her. 

They leave Lola half-washed in the hangar, something he would normally  _ never  _ do, and dart across the base to his bedroom, shivering and hiding their half-naked bodies as they run.

  
  


5.

He wakes up slowly as she shifts on the bed, his back suddenly cold without her chest pressed against it. Still groggy, he rolls towards her, sliding his left arm under her neck as he pulls her back against him. 

The prosthetic isn’t attached, but he’s never felt self-conscious about being without it in front of Skye, in front of Daisy. As much as it has always pleased him to know that she appreciates his body, he’s stopped worrying about the potential of disappointing her with it. Whatever he is, it turns out, is enough for her.

Even with his left arm stretched under her pillow, he’s able to hold her tightly with his right.

It’s still new, the feeling of her naked body in his arms, and he would swear the world feels different when they’re touching. Like the pressing knowledge of everything he knows now isn’t so pressing, like the ever-growing repercussions of SHIELD and the Inhumans are paused, like the floods he knows are coming are held at bay — somehow — by the feel of her skin against his.

“What time ’s it?” 

“Early,” she answers, which he can tell because it’s still dark — the animated false windows haven’t yet begun to glow. 

Her naked back is warm against his chest, and he moans as he presses himself closer, running his hand down to rest against her stomach as he nuzzles into her neck. At her quiet moan, he kisses beneath her ear and runs his hand up her arm, curving his palm around her elbow.

“I have to get up soon.” But her warning is undermined by the way she tilts her head, offering up more of her neck. 

“Mmmhmm,” he agrees between kisses and light nips that run towards her shoulder, that make her shiver and writhe against him, “but soon isn’t now.” 

She groans and makes a sort of long suffering sigh, like it’s an imposition, but she also backs her ass up against his cock and raises her top leg up to twist behind his, opening herself up to him. 

His hand wanders down from her arm to cup her breasts, light touches that make her nipples harden, and then he tickles down her stomach to slip his fingers between her legs. 

She’s not wet enough, yet, and he quickly sucks his index and middle fingers into his mouth, wetting them before he lays them against her clit. As he makes a soft circle, she arches towards his fingers and lets out a little moan, almost a whimper.

“Good?” He asks the question with his mouth pressed just beneath her ear, and she moans her response. 

“Yeah,” she answers, breathless as she arches her neck against his lips, silently asking for more.

He presses his fingers against her clit, his mouth against her neck, until she’s writhing back against his body, until he can slip his fingers down and feel her arousal, her readiness.

Her moans are breathy and soft as she starts to move her hips against him, encouraging him to push his cock inside of her. 

Almost as soon as he does, she drops her hand between her legs and he feels the vibrations start. 

It’s a relatively new thing, her comfort with moving the air around them gently enough that she’s confident in giving pleasure and not causing damage. 

And it’s  _ amazing _ , his whole body lit up with tingles that he can feel in his toes and his ears and everywhere in between.

First thing in the morning, though, it feels like a dirty trick — he can hardly stand it, the vibrations make it hard to do anything but clutch at her and try not to come before she does. 

“Slower,” he begs, almost a sob, and she backs off — enough that he can move, thrust, but still feel like he’s almost lost in her. 

“ Like that,” she grunts quietly when he manages a sharp thrust, even at this angle, so he goes again  _ like that _ .

And she’s the one who can feel the vibrations of the world around her, but he swears he can feel it as she starts to get close. He swears he can  _ feel  _ the difference in her skin and her breath and her pulse, and he buries his face in the side of her neck, clenching his jaw against his own need. 

Skye — Daisy — is silent and open-mouthed when she comes, though when they’re pressed together like this, he can feel her throat move, can feel the unvocalized vibrations that could be a scream. 

Her silence bothered him at first, and then it was a challenge to make her lose control, but now he likes it — the quiet intensity and the way it’s just for him, just for them, not for anyone else to hear. 

He follows her, arm wrapped tightly around her waist, still holding to her as he groans in her ear. 

It’s probably a stupid cliche, but he slips back towards sleep, surrounded by the feel and the smell of her. 

“I have to get up,” she murmurs some time later, and he squeezes her against him in reply. 

“Five more minutes.” 

“May’s going to come looking for me.” 

It’s a joke, but it’s also a warning, and he really doesn’t need a repeat of the last time May came looking for Daisy. 

May hadn’t quite been able to keep a straight face while accusing him of being a  _ bad influence _ , like this is some kind of teenage drama, but the whole point stands. They’ve been doing better at figuring out what their relationship means in the bedroom and the office and the field and the gym.

He laughs, still sleepy, and lets her go.

And it’s not like he means to, but he falls back asleep because he can, because they have no pressing missions today, and he’s woken again only when she reenters the room after her workout, fresh from the shower. 

He watches she she drops her towel, giving him an unobstructed view of her naked body, perfect and still flushed from the steam. 

Coulson groans, feels himself stir. 

And, well, he’s a pathetic old man when it comes to her — to Skye, to  _ Daisy _ —  and he’s gotten relatively comfortable with that fact.

As she folds up her towel and drags a comb through her hair, his right hand drifts over his partially erect cock, stroking it to fully hard. It’s not even that she’s doing anything particularly erotic — bending and stretching and turning as she scrunches some sort of cream through her hair and applies deodorant and just generally gets herself ready for her day. 

Naked. 

In his bedroom.

Where she keeps her toiletries, now. 

His hand speeds up over his cock because even seeing her like this, domestic and thoroughly unerotic, is arousing as hell. 

It takes him a minute to realize that she’s watching him, watching the obvious motion of his hand under the thin white sheet.

“ Let me see,” she requests, though her voice is  _ telling  _ more than asking. 

Coulson swallows and tugs down the sheet, exposes his naked body to her. He  _ is  _ proud of his body, proud of how he looks, and there’s always a frisson of pleasure when she approves of it, too, when she runs her eyes over him and licks her lips like she finds him thoroughly appetizing. 

“Keep going, I want to watch.” 

His hand shakes as he wraps it back around his cock, begins to stroke himself again, and every movement feels amplified by the weight of her gaze on him. 

“Daisy,” he grunts her name as she climbs up on the foot bed, crawling towards him on all fours like she wants to eat him for breakfast.

She straddles his legs, sitting just above his knees so she can look down and watch, and also so he has a perfect view when her fingers slip between her legs. 

The increasingly fast pace of his hand over his cock is suddenly too much too soon, and he releases himself, drawing in a deep breath to calm down. 

“Don’t stop, Phil,” she taunts him, speeding up her own fingers over her clit. 

He whimpers as she settles herself against his thighs, parting her legs more and leaning backwards to make sure he has the best view possible. Her left hand skates up her torso as her right keeps moving between her legs, and he watches in rapt fascination as she cups her breast in concert with her masturbation.

“Shit, Sk—” 

He stops himself draws a breath. 

“Daisy.” 

“Phil,” she moans his name, and he speeds up the motions of his wrist. 

“ _ Dai _ sy.” And he’s not fully used to it, yet, but it’s starting to come more naturally, in between harsh breaths. 

“Come for me, Phil.”

It’s over for him  _ so fast  _ at that, at her desire to see him come, at the way she watches him in rapt fascination. It’s a struggle to keep his eyes open, to watch as she moves from stroking her clit to vibrating the air, to watch as she comes apart on top of him. 

She groans and falls down to the side of him, careful to avoid the mess on his chest as she curls into his shoulder. 

“We should get up,” he whispers into the top of her head some time later, when he’s too aware of the fact that he needs to wipe himself off, to take his own shower. 

“Five more minutes,” she replies, curling herself tighter against him. 

And he gets it, gives in easily. It’s hard not to want five more minutes of this, of Phil and Daisy and  naked bodies. What comes next — the suits and meetings and Coulson and Agent Johnson — is more difficult, but still plenty rewarding. 

“I think you should wear those tight jeans today,” she suggests, and he laughs quietly because actually the line that defines these compartments — Coulson and Agent Johnson, Phil and Daisy — is a lot more blurry than he pretends most days. 

“Okay.” 

He doesn’t mind blurry so much. 

  
  
  


 


End file.
